The Eye of Dread

The young man neither moved nor spoke for a moment, and as he stood thus the sheriff took him by the arm, and roused him. “Richard Kildene, you are under arrest for the murder of your cousin, Peter Craigmile, Jr.”

With a quick, frantic movement, Harry King sprang back and thrust both men violently from him. The red of anger mounted to his hair and throbbed in his temples, then swept back to his heart, and left him with a deathlike pallor.

“Keep back. I’m not Richard Kildene. You have the wrong man. Peter Craigmile was never murdered.”

The big Swede leaped the piazza railing and stood close to him, while the sheriff held him pinioned, and Sam Carter drew out his notebook.

“You know me, Mr. Kellar,–stand off, I say. I am Peter Craigmile. Look at me. Put away those handcuffs. It is I, alive, Peter Craigmile, Jr.”

“That’s a very clever plea, but it’s no go,” said G. B. Stiles, and proceeded to fasten the irons on his wrists.

“Yas, I know you dot man keel heem, all right. I hear you tol’ some von you keel heem,” said the Swede, slowly, in suppressed excitement.

“You’re a very good actor, young man,–mighty clever,–but it’s no go. Now you’ll walk along with us if you please,” said Mr. Kellar.

“But I tell you I don’t please. It’s a mistake. I am Peter Craigmile, Jr., himself, alive.”

“Well, if you are, you’ll have a chance to prove it, but evidence is against you. If you are he, why do you come back under an assumed name during your father’s absence? A little hitch there you did not take into consideration.”

“I had my reasons–good ones–I–came back to confess to the–un–un–witting–killing of my cousin, Richard.” He turned from one to the other, panting as if he had been running a race, and threw out his words impetuously. “I tell you I came here for the very purpose of giving myself up–but you have the wrong man.”

By this time a crowd had collected, and the servants were running from their work all over the hotel, while the proprietor stood aloof with staring eyes.

“Here, Mr. Decker, you remember me–Elder Craigmile’s son? Some of you must remember me.”

But the proprietor only wagged his head. He would not be drawn into the thing. “I have no means of knowing who you are–no more than Adam. The name you wrote in my book was Harry King.”

“I tell you I had my reasons. I meant to wait here until the Elder’s–my father’s return and–”

“And in the meantime we’ll put you in a quiet little apartment, very private, where you can wait, while we look into things a bit.”

“You needn’t take me through the streets with these things on; I’ve no intention of running away. Let me go to my room a minute.”

“Yes, and put a bullet through your head. I’ve no intention of running any risks now we have you,” said the detective.

“Now you have who? You have no idea whom you have. Take off these shackles until I pay my bill. You have no objection to that, have you?”

They turned into the hotel, and the handcuffs were removed while the young man took out his pocketbook and paid his reckoning. Then he turned to them.

“I must ask you to accompany me to my room while I gather my toilet necessities together.” This they did, G. B. Stiles and the sheriff walking one on either side, while the Swede followed at their heels. “What are you doing here?” he demanded, turning suddenly upon the stable man.

“Oh, I yust lookin’ a leetle out.”

“Mr. Stiles, what does this mean, that you have that man dogging me?”

“It’s his affair, not mine. He thinks he has a certain interest in you.”

Then he turned in exasperation to the sheriff. “Can you give me a little information, Mr. Kellar? What has that Swede to do with me? Why am I arrested for the murder of my own self–preposterous! I, a man as alive as you are? You can see for yourself that I am Elder Craigmile’s son. You know me?”

“I know the Elder fairly well–every one in Leauvite knows him, but I can’t say as I’ve ever taken particular notice of his boy, and, anyway, the boy was murdered three years ago–a little over–for it was in the fall of the year–well, that’s most four years–and I must say it’s a mighty clever dodge, as Mr. Stiles says, for you to play off this on us. It’s a matter that will bear looking into. Now you sit down here and hold on to yourself, while I go through your things. You’ll get them all, never fear.”

Then Harry King sat down and looked off through the open window, and paid no heed to what the men were doing. They might turn his large valise inside out and read every scrap of written paper. There was nothing to give the slightest clew to his identity. He had left the envelope addressed to the Elder, containing the letters he had written, at the bank, to be placed in the safety vault, and not to be delivered until ordered to do so by himself.

As they finished their search and restored the articles to his valise, he asked again that the handcuffs be left off as he walked through the streets.

“I have no desire to escape. It is my wish to go with you. I only wish I might have seen the–my father first. He could not have helped me–but he would have understood–it would have seemed less–”

He could not go on, and the sheriff slipped the handcuffs in his pocket, and they proceeded in silence to the courthouse, where he listened to the reading of the warrant and his indictment in dazed stupefaction, and then walked again in silence between his captors to the jail in the rear.

“No one has ever been in this cell,” said Mr. Kellar. “I’m doing the best I can for you.”

“How long must I stay here? Who brings accusation?”

“I don’t know how long: as this is a murder charge you can’t be bailed out, and the trial will take time. The Elder brings accusation–naturally.”

“When is he expected home?”

“Can’t say. You’ll have some one to defend you, and then you can ask all the questions you wish.” The sheriff closed the heavy door and the key was turned.

Then began weary days of waiting. If it had been possible to get the trial over with, Harry would have been glad, but it made little difference to him now, since the step had been taken, and a trial in his case would only be a verdict, anyway–and confession was a simple thing, and the hearing also.

The days passed, and he wondered that no one came to him–no friend of the old time. Where were Bertrand Ballard and Mary? Where was little Betty? Did they not know he was in jail? He did not know that others had been arrested on the same charge and released, more than once. True, no one had made the claim of being the Elder’s own son and the murdered man himself. As such incidents were always disturbing to Betty, when Bertrand read the notice of the arrest in the Mercury, the paper was laid away in his desk and his little daughter was spared the sight of it this time.

But he spoke of the matter to his wife. “Here is another case of arrest for poor Peter Junior’s murder, Mary. The man claims to be Peter Junior himself, but as he registered at the hotel under an assumed name it is likely to be only another attempt to get the reward money by some detective. It was very unwise for the Elder to make it so large a sum.”

“It can’t be. Peter Junior would never be so cruel as to stay away all this time, if he were alive, no matter how deeply he may have quarreled with his father. I believe they both went over the bluff and are both dead.”

“It stands to reason that one or the other body would have been found in that case. One might be lost, but hardly both. The search was very thorough, even down to the mill race ten miles below.”

“The current is so swift there, they might have been carried over the race, and on, before the search began. I think so, although no one else seems to.”

“I wish the Elder would remove that temptation of the reward. It is only an inducement to crime. Time alone will solve the mystery, and as long as he continues to brood over it, he will go on failing in health. It’s coming to an obsession with him to live to see Richard Kildene hung, and some one will have to swing for it if he has his way. Now he will return and find this man in jail, and will bend every effort, and give all his thought toward getting him convicted.”

“But I thought you said they do not hang in this state.”

“True–true. But imprisonment for life is–worse. I’m thinking of what the Elder would like could he have his way.”

“Bertrand–I believe the Elder is sure the man will be found and that it will kill his wife, when she comes to know that Peter Junior was murdered, and that is why he took her to Scotland. She told me she was sure her son was there, or would go to see his great aunts there, and that is why she consented to go–but I’m sure the Elder wished to get her out of the way.”

“Strange–strange,” said Bertrand. “After all, it is better to forgive. No one knows what transpired, and Richard is the real sufferer.”

“Do you suppose he’ll leave Hester there, Bertrand?”

“I hardly think she would be left, but it is impossible to tell. A son’s loss is more than any other–to a mother.”

“Do you think so, Bertrand? It would be hardest of all to lose a husband, and the Elder has failed so much since Peter Junior’s death.”

“Peter Junior seems to be the only one who has escaped suffering in this tragedy. Remorse in Richard’s case, and stubborn anger in the Elder’s–they are emotions that take large toll out of a man’s vitality. If ever Richard is found, he will not be the young man we knew.”